


Two Things

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:59:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You never begin with a witness. (on love and sociopathy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Things

**Author's Note:**

> Two things: 1) a 221B and 2) something else.

Asked whether I love Sherlock I'd say yes without hesitation. But he's taught me that you never begin with a witness. Or a victim that's living.

First, you observe. ( _I didn't know; I saw_.): 

1)   The flat is a crime scene.  I don't move out.

2)   Killed a man the first night. I still moved in.

3)   Boredom, bullets, explosive outerwear.

4)   Blood, hair, footprints, fiber, scar tissue, marsh grass, ash, blood: This has to be a metaphor.

No detail is too dull. No claim is without evidence.

So I’ll claim that it’s different:

It's different because he makes it difficult and I do it anyway.

It’s different because he lets me know I’m up to the job.

It's different because it’s an undiscovered country. (like Scotland, or hell.)

Sherlock loves two things: the game and the city of London.  Me? I don’t have a clue.

He cares what I think.

He knows that I'll come:   

  
 _Glentworth St.  Graveyard. Unauthorized bodies._

 _Barrels of aromatic hydrocarbons._

 _And a head._

 _Could get you killed._

 _Arterial bleeds; how urgent, really?_

 _Advanced decomposition; wear the wellies._

 _Crossfire. Really._

I think that he’s wrong. ( _I didn’t know; I saw._ ) I think people _are_ interested in the facts:

I've never told him that I love him. That would be weird. But I hope that's what he believes.

 

******

 

John is not a poet. He's a storyteller. But if he _were_ a poet, he might write this about the source of Sherlock's "sociopathy.":

  
When you were young  
you were burnt. Not by fire  
but by indifference, the cold  
shoulders that made you blink  
and refuse their arms and cups,  
blankets and sleep,  
until they thought affection  
was what kept you up,  
and stopped.

 

Sympathetic sort, John.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
